Awakening
by yeah-well-hey
Summary: Before the awakening of the Senshi, there was the awakening of the Shitennou. Reborn after the Silver Millennium and before the events of the manga, Kunzite sets out to find his fellow Heavenly Kings. But they can only serve one Master.
1. Kunzite

**Note: This story generally follows the plot of the manga, but is also contained within the Ode to Memory AU. It is inspired by a single page from the manga (Volume 2), where Kunzite mentions how he and the other Heavenly Kings were reborn, but fell back into the hands of the Dark Kingdom before their memories could be returned to them.  
**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Kunzite**

I.

I float inches above the ocean, my eyes riveted upon the immaculate sky.

There is a sword in my hands. I hold it close to my chest, blade downwards. The hilt is cold, like the wind that touches my face. I feel a cape softly undulating beneath me, and hear the whispering waves.

A palace drifts into view. White columns, and endless stairs. In my heart, there is a brief flicker of recognition, but the flame does not rise. I search the gathering clouds, and soon, a figure emerges.

I cannot see him clearly. The man suspended directly above me. I am blinded by the light of the sun, reflected in his silver armour. He reminds of Hvar, the sun-god, and I shiver in his presence.

"I need your protection," he says, his voice echoing infinitely through the air.  
I wish to speak, but cannot utter a single word.  
"Find them," he tells me. "Find your fellow Heavenly Kings."  
_Who are the Heavenly Kings?_

Suddenly, someone grasps my arm. Turns me over, to make me stare into the dark waters below.  
Into the eyes of a strange woman.  
I can see it.  
_The shining darkness in the depths of the ocean._

"You belong to me," she declares, tightening her grip.  
The Earth falls out of balance. Tipping to one side, betraying its axis. The sky now faces the ocean vertically, like an unfaithful mirror. And I am caught in between.  
"You were reborn to serve me" the man declares, but his voice begins to overlap with the woman's.  
I can barely breathe. My body is completely immobile.  
"Find your fellow Heavenly Kings," they both say. Her fingernails dig into my flesh, and I am bleeding. Red filaments all over my skin, dripping down like rain.  
They speak to me one last time.

"Awake, _Kunzite._"

And I am severed from this dream.

II.

I open my eyes, and see a strip of light move across my ceiling. Sitting up, I realize it's coming from a passing car outside. I try to settle down, but my heart is still pounding. How brutal the transition to the realm of consciousness.  
_As though we were not meant for this life._

The stone pendant around my neck is glowing. I distractedly reach for it as try to make sense of my dream. It was too powerful, too detailed to be ignored. Even now, I hear their words reverberating through my head.  
_"Find your fellow Heavenly Kings."_

I slip out of bed and walk over to my desk. I don't know why, but I turn on the lamp and begin to look for a pencil. Then I open _The Socratic Dialogues_ and, on the first page, inexplicably write the following:  
_  
40.7815 N, 73.9732 W  
43.7686 N, 11.2552 E  
22.3426 N, 114.1936 E  
34.6547 N, 139.7370 E_

I step back, stunned by my own actions. What is the meaning of this? I take a look around, as though I expect an answer to materialize before me. Once I have regained my composure, I pick up my book, and stare incredulously at the coordinates I have scribbled down.  
Quickly, I tug my chair towards me and turn on my computer. The hard drive whirrs discreetly and the white glow of the screen illuminates my face. I enter the numbers and letters, and discover four different locations, in four different countries. None of them mean anything to me.  
_  
"Find your fellow Heavenly Kings."_

The images from my dream begin to juxtapose in my mind. I see the silver armour against the blackness of the ocean. I remember them calling me Kunzite, like the stone pendant I wear, but do not recognize it as being my name. I close the book, wanting desperately to forget about what I wrote inside. But I cannot put it away. I read the title on the cover obsessively, until the sun finally rises.

I leave earlier than I should. On my way towards the university, I take a long detour. Try to rearrange my thoughts. I walk distractedly, detached, floating like a spirit amongst the living, and eventually wander into a Sufi shrine of the Mevlevi Order.

I stand by a pillar of the circular room, watch the ritual dance of the Whirling Dervishes. Pivoting on one foot, they spin and spin in circles, their white robes floating endlessly around them. I observe the position of their hands; one palm facing the Heavens, the other, facing the Earth. I revel in the elegance of their movements, of their weightless bodies as they revolve around the center of the room, as the planets revolve around the Sun.

_And the Moon, around the Earth._

I listen to the haunting sound of the Ney, to the accelerating drums and chanting that accompany the dance. The music transports me into a meditative trance, but I am not at peace. My mind is agitated, in ceaseless motion.

The eyes of the Dervishes are open, but unfocused. So are mine, and the images in my head become blurred. I see white forms flowing before me, the world slowly disappearing. I no longer know where I am, and what I am meant to do. Who I am, and what I must become.

I have drifted out of myself.

III.

The day passes over me like a haze. I enter the classroom, open my book and manage to ignore the coordinates that kept me up all night. I deliver my lecture, and my students barely notice my distraction. We discuss the four cardinal virtues, that of Courage, Wisdom, Discipline and Justice, but my thoughts are elsewhere.

When the class is over, I hurriedly put everything away in my leather briefcase. My notes, my books, the essays I must correct for next week. I no longer care about any of it. All I can think about are the coordinates.

One student approaches me. She seems disheartened that I have already cleared my desk.  
"Are you leaving immediately, Mr. Ozan?" she asks me, holding her book against her, as I held the sword in my dream.  
"Do you have a question?"  
"Not really…"  
"Are you sure?"  
I look at her longer than I should. She blushes, and I feel guilty.  
"I just wanted to tell you that I really enjoyed the readings for today," she finally says.  
"I'm glad you did."  
There is a red ribbon in her hair. I admire it as she turns to leave.

As I head out of the University, I decide to hail a taxi. The driver asks me where he should take me, and I tell him I want to go to the Gate of Dolmabahçe Palace, on the shores of the Bosphorus.  
Whenever my mind is heavy, that is where I seek refuge.

We travel in silence; the driver does not start a conversation, and neither do I. He is tired, and I am preoccupied. I watch the saturated colours of Istanbul slip by, while he listens to a debate on the radio. At the end of the ride, we exchange only a few words; he tells me how much I owe him, and I thank him for the ride. Then, I step out of the car, and head for the Palace grounds.

There it stands, the white gate I have loved all my life. It is backdropped by the water, and the blue sky above it.  
I examine the columns on each side of the ornate steel gates, and feel transported by the structure's otherworldliness. No matter how many times I see it, I am always fascinated by it, by the way it reads to me like an open invitation to another realm. The realm of the Sea, and beyond.

The breeze tousles my long white hair. I remain still, trying to retrieve a memory that does not exist.  
An old habit of mine.

I sit on the ground and open my suitcase, fumble for my book. I look at the first page, under the title, and my eyes linger upon the coordinates I have been thinking about all day.  
_What is the purpose of my life?_  
Through my study of philosophy, I have tried to answer this burning question. Read every dialogue, book, and essay on the subject. I have found many answers, but none that have satisfied me. My existence does not bear a general meaning. There is something specific about it. Something ancient, set in stone. I can feel it in my body.

At present, the experience I have of this life comes to me through my senses. But when I begin to reason, I can no longer stare at the wall before me. The shadows cast upon it are lies, and I yearn to free myself from their entrapments. I must seek out the Forms, so that I can escape their unfulfilling reflection.

_"Find your fellow Heavenly Kings."_

Was it an order? An exhortation? Was it a desperate plea? Why was it addressed to me? What is expected of me, but to follow my instincts? If I don't, I know that the dream will come to me again. It will hound me, until I give in.

I take a deep breath, shut my eyes for a moment. I can feel the movements of the sea, and the restlessness of the wind. The heat of the land, and the suffering that hovers above it. I can sense each stone of the distant pyramids of Egypt, feel each grain of sand of the Ad-Dahna desert. I can perceive the ruins of Persepolis and picture the view from the Spiral of Samarra, as though I were there, right now.  
_  
It has always been this way._

I rise. Make a decision. Choose reason, over madness.  
To be mad is to live the life you know was never meant for you. To reason, is to find your true destiny. It is leaving everything behind, all the shadows, for a chance to peer at the Forms.

When I get home, I will pick up the phone, and find a substitute teacher for my class. Then, I will purchase a plane ticket for the first destination I have written down in my book.  
The Hayden Planetarium, in New York City.  
_North America._


	2. Nephrite

**Chapter 2: Nephrite**

I.

A blue sphere, glowing within a glass cube.  
I stare at the building for a while, in awe. Like the Gate of Dolmabahçe Palace, there is something unearthly about the Hayden Planetarium. Like it's a fragment from a dream, or of an era still to come.

I walk passed the arch at the entrance, and push the revolving door. I then arrive in the Hall of the Universe. All around me, I see a plethora of coloured screens, projections, and interactive content. Above, a white spiral staircase leads up to the giant sphere, as to a spaceship. I wander around, marvel at all the images of planets and nebulas and stars, and begin to feel dizzy.

Then, I wonder where he is. The Heavenly King I came looking for. I listen to the chatter of the numerous visitors, and unconsciously search for a familiar face in the crowd. But I am surrounded by strangers.

_He could be anyone._

I look through my pockets, and find the ticket I purchased online. For a show on the constellations and planets of our solar system. It begins in a few minutes, so I make my way up the stairs and notice scale models of planets hanging from the ceiling.

The Space Theatre is immense. Its walls are curved, and support a large hemispheric dome. In the centre of the room stands the fibre-optic projector. As I look for a seat, I see a man at a computer booth with multiple screens. He has dark, wavy hair that reaches down to his waist.

Suddenly, the lights begin to dim. I sit down as quickly as I can, and lean back in my seat. Darkness and silence descend, and the New York skyline begins to line the dome.

Then, at last, nine thousand stars appear above me.

The voice of the narrator echoes through the room, but I can barely hear it. I cannot concentrate on what he is saying, so absorbed am I by the clarity of the Astral Sea. I am immersed in a voyage of my own, drifting amongst the celestial bodies.

Andromeda looks down upon me, rattling her chains. At the tip of Ursa Minor, I behold the North Star. I feel it staring back at me, as though we were old lovers. There is Orion, and the Gemini, and Cassiopeia. All the different constellations reveal themselves to me, and form the map of the shimmering universe that lies beyond the Earth.

Now, I see the planets. My eyes cling to Venus. Something about it touches my heart, and I hold my breath. The softness of its glow, its position in the sky, its name on my lips as I whisper it in secret. Sorrow sweeps over me like an invisible wave, and I feel _pain_ when Venus disappears.

II.

At the end of the show, I remain still. The rest of the audience leaves the room, but I am pinned to my seat. Once again, that feeling surges through me; the desire to remember something that does not exist.

"Was it your first time?" a raspy voice suddenly inquires.  
I look up, and see the man from the computer booth standing right next to me, on the aisle.  
"I… Yes. Yes, it was my first time," I answer, rising to my feet.  
He takes a step back and smiles.  
"First time in a planetarium, or just in this one?"  
"First time in a planetarium."  
"Do you know what kind of projector we use?"  
"Not really."  
"Come with me, have a closer look at it."  
I follow him down to the middle of the room.  
"This one's a Zeiss Mark IX. The theatre itself uses high-resolution video footage to project the shows, all based on scientific visualization of the latest astrophysical data. And this here projector replicates the night sky as seen from our planet. It's got over 30 motors and is controlled by 45 computers, no less."  
"Impressive."  
He turns towards me and places his hands on his narrow waist. He is tall and imposing, and endowed with unusual natural elegance.  
"I'm the assistant systems coordinator. While my illustrious colleague was giving his lecture, I was the one operating all the magic behind the scenes. On the computers over there. I'm also one of the guides, so if you've got any questions, I'm the right man to ask them to."  
I nod.  
"Are you a tourist?" he inquires.  
"I'm from Istanbul," I reply. "I arrived yesterday evening."  
"Yeah? And what do you think of New York so far? Not too agitated?"  
"Quite. But then so is Istanbul, in its own way."

I notice that he wears a chain around his neck. He moves slightly, and the opening of his shirt reveals a green stone.  
_Do I believe in coincidence?_  
"You here on vacation?" he asks.  
"Not exactly."  
"What made you come to our fine establishment on your very first day in New York?"  
I don't know how to answer his question. Do I tell him the truth?  
"I am looking for something."  
"Knowledge?"  
"Perhaps."  
"What do you do for a living?"  
"I'm a professor of Classical Philosophy at the University of Istanbul."  
He gives a long whistle.  
"Philosophy, huh? You're quite young for a university professor."  
"I've been teaching for two years now. I'm currently working on my Doctoral thesis."  
"I'm writing my Master's thesis, myself." he explains. "While working here, of course. I'm in Astrophysics and Cosmology, at NYU."  
"I see. And what of that stone around your neck?"  
He appears surprised.  
"This? It's a Nephrite. My grandfather gave it to me when I was a boy. He was a healer, and collected many stones. He brought it back from Canada, I think. I'm not sure why I keep wearing it."  
"I wear a stone as well," I inform him, and pull out my necklace to show him.  
"No way!" he cries. "What kind of stone is it?"  
"A Kunzite."  
"That's amazing! Is it a thing in Istanbul?"  
"Pardon me?"  
"A thing, you know, like… A trend?"  
"Not really. Like you, I've always worn it. Without exactly knowing why. I grew up near the sea, in Turkey, but spent many holidays in Egypt. That's where I found it, on the shores of the Nile, like an abandoned treasure in the sand."  
_I have always been drawn to the water._  
Folding his arms, he seems intrigued. Then, he remembers something.  
"I don't think I've properly introduced myself, have I? I'm Menewa Brennan. Pleased to meet you."

He holds out his hand to shake mine.  
And as soon as we come into direct contact, a vision invades my mind.  
I see him wearing a gold-trimmed tunic, and a cape. He is offering me a sword… The image lasts but a second, and feels like an electrical current.

Menewa seems as surprised as I am. He looks into my eyes, and won't release my hand. I feel as though I've known the spark in his ultramarine eyes forever.

"…I'm Arad Ozan," I finally tell him, and he lets go.  
"Pleased to meet you, Arad."  
"Menewa's an unusual name for an American," I continue, still staring into his eyes.  
"Depends on your perspective. It's Creek. It means 'great warrior'. My mother was Native American."  
"Great warrior?"  
"That's right," he boasts. "I think it suits me. Or at least, it suits the kind of person I'd have been, if had been born a few centuries ago, and had lived amongst my people. You know, sometimes, I almost feel as though my name was given to me at the wrong time. Because, I feel like I'm not… living up to it."  
_It must be him._  
"Like you are not exactly the man you think you should be?"  
He shrugs.  
"Something like that. It's hard to explain."  
_I know exactly what he means._

"I've been looking for you, Menewa," I suddenly say, and he holds still.  
"Looking for me?"  
"Tell me. Do you feel as though you are living the life you were meant to live? Do you not feel a calling for a higher purpose?"  
He frowns, giving me no answer.  
"You saw something too, just now, didn't you?" I continue. "When we shook hands."  
Menewa remains silent.  
"Didn't you?"  
"I… I'm not sure."  
"What did you see?"  
He hesitates.  
"You, in white. Accepting a sword."  
"And I saw you handing it over to me."  
"Who… Who _are_ you?"  
"I was hoping you'd help me find out."  
"Look, I… don't know what this whole thing is about, but it's getting weird and I'd better get back to work. So if you'll excuse me…"  
Menewa tries to walk away, but I place my hand on his shoulder and close my eyes.  
"Stay," I whisper. "For you are one of the Heavenly Kings."  
And both our stones begin to glow.

"The Heavenly… Kings?" he breathes, examining his pendant.  
"I think you and I were friends once, long ago. Just being in your presence is bringing me such clarity. Like I am on the verge of a revelation."  
"What kind of revelation?"  
"Our destiny. I was brought here by a dream, Menewa. A man in silver armour, asking me to find my fellow Heavenly Kings."  
I pull out my book to show him the coordinates.  
"I spontaneously wrote these down the other night. They are what lead me to you. The first coordinates on the page correspond to this planetarium."  
Intrigued, he takes a look at them.  
"How do you know he's real?" he asks. "That man in your dream."  
"What does 'real' mean to you? When you watch this dome, do you not feel the power of the stars? The immensity of the universe? Its beauty? Does the fact you are staring at a mere projection change these truths, and the way they affect you?"  
"No, it doesn't."  
"I don't even think my dream was a message from someone in particular. But rather, a reinterpretation of buried memories by my subconscious."  
"Buried memories? Like something you once knew, but must learn again?"

Folding his arms, he begins to move around the projector, and I follow him. Our stones have returned to normal.  
"I always knew that I wanted to study the stars," he says. "Back when I lived in Oklahoma, my family and I spent most of our time outdoors. We'd have barbecues in the open air with other people from our tribe, and at night, I'd just sit on the hood of my father's Chevy, stargazing. It's all I ever did. That, and getting into fights."  
He chuckles, turning around for a second, then keeps going.  
"When I began my studies, it almost felt like a waste of time to me. Like I already knew everything about the stars, and each class was just a reiteration of existing knowledge that I was simply remembering. You know, like when you somehow manage to sing along to the words of a song you haven't heard in ages. They just come to you, freely, and it's like they were never gone from your mind at all."  
Finally, he stops. Faces me again.  
"Do you feel the same way, Arad?"  
"Yes… I've always had the impression of possessing some sort of innate knowledge. In my first philosophy classes, when the teacher would read out loud to us, I'd find myself predicting each word from Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Lucretius… And from texts I hadn't yet gone through on my own."  
"Could there be _more?_ More things hidden within us?"  
"I am sure of it. And I think that we will remember them all, if we find the other Heavenly Kings. Already, we know that you and I share a common memory. You gave me a sword once, which I accepted. We must find out more. Who we truly are. But above all, what purpose we must serve."  
"You want to travel to all those places you wrote down in your book?"  
"It is what I have set out to do. I want you to come with me, Menewa."  
"I don't know about that."  
"You remain unconvinced of our connection?"  
He ignores my question.  
"My shift is over in a few minutes," he says. "Do you want to take a walk with me? I need some fresh air."  
"As you wish," I answer, then follow him as he heads for the exit. Then I wait for him while he enters the staff room to pick up his things.

On our way through the Hall of the Universe, Menewa halts to give a few quick explanations to a child gawking at a screen. It's some sort of presentation about the planet Jupiter.  
"Its radius is 11.2 times larger than the Earth's," he informs him. "You could fit our planet over a thousand times in Jupiter."  
"Really?" the boy cries.  
"Yep. Jupiter's my favourite planet. The largest, and most impressive of them all."

III.

The night air is cool and crisp. Menewa zips up his sheepskin jacket as we prepare to cross the street. Cars, buses and yellow cabs rush passed us, until the light finally turns green. We find ourselves on another interminable avenue, lined with interminable buildings. There is no end in the horizon to this city, as though it stretches on forever in every direction.

"It's pretty cold out, isn't it?" Menewa asks, eying my short grey trenchcoat. "You okay in that?"  
"I'm alright."  
"Maybe we should have a drink somewhere. There's this small Irish pub nearby. I'll buy you a beer. How's that sound?"  
"Good. Thank you."  
Suddenly, his phone begins to ring.  
"Do you like Def Leppard?" he inquires as he searches for it. "I've had this ringtone since, like, the dawn of time. I love it."  
"Never heard of them."  
Menewa gasps in disbelief, then picks up, while I keep walking beside him with my hands in my pockets.  
"Hi, there. How are you doing? I know, I'm sorry. I've been busy with work, with my thesis… Huh? No, no. It's not that, listen. Of course we had a good time. I just… I'm not feeling it, you know? And I don't think trying again is gonna help. Listen… I'm sorry, but I can't talk about this right now. Okay? I'm with someone, and…"  
He pauses, shuts his eyes in annoyance.  
"No, it's a friend. Look, this is not the right time. Although we did already talk about it. I have to go now. We'll go out for coffee sometime soon, alright? Okay. Bye."  
After he hangs up, he stuffs his phone in his back pocket and sighs in frustration.  
"Was that your girlfriend?" I ask him.  
"My girlfriend? No way. It's just some girl I went out on a date with the other night. Won't stop calling me. It's my own fault for flirting with her. I do like her, but… I just don't think she's right for me. I can't explain why. It's just the way it is."  
"Oh."  
"What about you? Got a girlfriend back home?"  
"No. I don't really have the time. It seems I'm always lost in my books."  
"I'm sure you have admirers, though. Good-looking guy like you. And a university professor, too."  
"You think too highly of me."  
"Not at all," he replies, and stops in front of a small terrace.

This must be the pub he mentioned. I look above the door, and see its name.  
_The Dead Poet_  
"Come on," Menewa says, opening the door and inviting me inside.

The place is small and intimate. We sit at the counter, and order some beer. I squint through the dim lighting, and have a look around. The atmosphere of the place vaguely reminds me of the Hookah lounge I usually go to in Istanbul.  
"I've been in every Irish bar in the city," Menewa proudly declares. "It's been my way of connecting with my Irish roots, I guess."  
He gives an earnest, pleasant laugh. How strange; I feel as though it has once echoed through the rooms of a palace.  
"The more time I spend with you, the closer I feel to my true self," I tell him. "I wonder what will happen when we are all reunited."  
"The Heavenly Kings, right? What are they supposed to be, anyway?"  
"I'm not sure. The man in my dream requested our protection. But there was also a woman…"  
"Oh?"  
"She said we belonged to her."  
"Was she attractive?"  
I smile faintly while the barman pours our beer.  
_She was terrifying._  
"I don't know what to make of any of it," I continue. "But what I do know, is that I have to find the others. Will you not come with me?"  
Menewa just stares at his glass. He has grown serious again.  
"Perhaps I will."  
"Really?"  
He nods, then his eyes meet mine.  
"I want to live up to whatever it is I'm supposed to be," he says, sustaining my gaze. "And I want to know everything that I once knew about the stars. There must have been so much more. I look at all the data we've accumulated at the Planetarium, and it feels like I'm only looking at the tip of the iceberg."  
"Then help me find the third Heavenly King."  
"Where is he?"  
"Florence, Italy."  
"You mean, Italy, as in, Italy, Europe?"  
"Yes. What other Italy is there?"  
"Well, there's Little Italy, Lower Manhattan," he says with a smirk. "You should check it out before we leave."  
"And when will that be, Menewa?"  
"Tomorrow, if I play my cards right. I've got a couple of weeks of vacation in bank. I'll request to take some time off now. They can do without me for a while, even though I _am_ the life of the party over there."  
"Then it is settled."

He raises his glass to me in a gesture so familiar, that I am sure I have seen him do it a thousand times before.


	3. Zoisite

**Chapter 3: Zoisite**

I.

I place my hand on a column of the arcade surrounding the museum courtyard, and study the shadows cradled in the arches above. A detail that reminds me of a place I cannot recall.

_I know it._

Menewa turns around, wondering why I have stopped.  
"Arad? You coming, or what?"  
"Yes. In a second."  
"Don't tell me you're already tired. It only took us all morning to find this place," he sneers. "I'll tell you, I'm already starting to miss the streets of New York. They're not all tangled up like they are out here in Europe."  
"It's not much different in Istanbul."  
"You people really need to rethink your cities."  
I smile, and join him as we make our way towards the waiting line. There aren't many visitors today, so we get in rather quickly. As we purchase our tickets, Menewa requests a map of the museum, which he consults at the foot of the grand staircase.

"Oh, would you look at that," he says, full of irony. "Only three floors, and over 45 exhibition halls. It shouldn't take us _too_ long to find the guy we're looking for. I don't suppose those coordinates of yours gave us his exact location, did they?"  
"They lead to the Uffizi Gallery Museum, Florence. Beyond that…"  
"…is all up to us."  
"Precisely."  
"Well, I guess we better get started, then. How exactly are we supposed to identify him, this third Heavenly King? Do we look for a guy with a stone around his neck?"  
"It's our only clue for now," I reply, already heading up the stairs.  
"Right," Menewa says, and follows my lead.

As we proceed through one of the corridors, we slowly begin to drift from the present time, and into an era of splendour. Under our feet, a long sequence of checkerboard tiles, and over our heads, an endless succession of frescoes. All along the walls, statues and paintings, and open doors that lead into different halls, each one containing only masterpieces.

The object of our visit soon fades from our minds. I stop in front of a triptych, while Menewa wanders off in another direction. When I finally manage to pull myself away from the exquisite colours before me, he is nowhere in sight. It hardly bothers me, because another painting soon attracts my attention. Then another, and another, and another…

_How can so much beauty be contained within a single building?_

I walk from hall to hall, and absorb everything I see, as though I have thirsted for it all my life.

II.

An hour has passed. Or perhaps two. I'm not sure. I enter a large room with a tall ceiling and wooden beams, and notice a group of visitors gathered around one painting in particular.

Intrigued, I draw near, patiently wait for the small crowd to disperse. And finally, I see it. The famous Renaissance masterpiece I once discussed with my class.  
_The Birth of Venus_

She stands on a seashell where the ocean meets the land, her golden hair rising with the wind as she covers her tender breast with her right hand. On her left stands the Horae, waiting to dress her naked body in a flower-covered robe. On her right soars Zephyrus, the God of the West Wind, carrying Aura, the gentle breeze.

I did not realize I would see this painting here. In person, for the first time. I know it well, and how a Neoplatonist mind is meant to read it. Plato viewed Venus as both an earthy and heavenly goddess. In the first instance, she aroused physical love. And in the latter, she inspired intellectual love. According to Plato, one better understands spiritual beauty when one begins by contemplating physical beauty. Looking at this painting should therefore ultimately lift one's mind towards the divine.

But in my case, staring at the Goddess of Love only fills me with sorrow.  
And my mind sinks to somber depths.

If I could, I would take my eyes off her face. Step back, and detach myself from this painting. But I am rooted in the ground. An absurd thought slips into my brain. That the Venus portrayed in this piece does not hold a candle to the real Goddess of Love. As though I, a mere mortal, once gazed upon her myself…

"Ah, there you are," someone says, and the Goddess finally releases me.  
It's Menewa. He is standing right next to me.  
"I've been looking all over for you. Stopping in front of all kinds of painting, but still looking for you."  
He glances over at the painting.  
"Hey, I know this one. Isn't it, like, the Creation of Venus, by, uhm… What's his name? Caravaggio?"  
"Botticelli," I correct him.

"_Sandro_ Botticelli," an irritated visitor behind us adds. "And it's actually The Birth of Venus, or _Nascita di Venere_. Painted in 1486, tempera on canvas."  
We turn around, and see a young man on a bench of the room's sitting area. He wears Italian loafers, taupe-coloured trousers, a white shirt and formal jacket, as well as a scarf around his neck. With his copper curls and delicate countenance, he appears as though he has stepped right out of one of Dante Gabriel Rossetti's paintings.  
"Of course, you'd know all that, if only you'd read the label," he adds, crossing his legs, then writing something down in the notebook he's holding. "But you Americans don't really like to read, do you?'"  
"Excuse me?" Menewa snaps. "For your information, I'm _Native American_, and my friend here is Turkish or Persian or whatever. Who asked for your input, anyway?"  
"_You_ did, when you butchered the name of this painting. I wasn't going to stand for it."  
"Oh no? Who exactly are you, kid? Some kind of art nerd?"  
"Something like that. I'm an art history student."  
"An art student! Ha! I should have known."  
By force of habit, I check to see if the young man we're talking to has a stone pendant around his neck. Unfortunately, I cannot tell, because of his scarf.  
"Are you a lumberjack?" he asks Menewa.  
"I'm an _astrophysicist_."  
"Even worse."  
Menewa gives me an exasperated look.  
"Can you believe this guy?"  
"Let him be, Menewa," I tell him. "We've got to keep going."  
"That's right. Listen to your Ottoman friend," the young man says.  
This upsets Menewa even more.

Before I can stop him, he walks over to the art student, who puts his notebook away and rises almost immediately. The museum guard, who has been standing at the other end of the hall, is momentarily gone, summoned by disruptive visitors in the next room. If only he knew what was happening _here_.  
"What's your problem, kid? You like to be rude for the sheer heck of it?" Menewa asks.  
"No. _Come ti ho detto_, I wasn't going to let you butcher the name of that painting without saying anything."  
"What are you, nuts? Who even cares?"  
"_I_ do. And you know what? People like you should be charged extra just for coming in here and polluting our galleries with their ignorance."  
"That's it. You're dead!" Menewa says, and grabs him by the collar.  
At that exact moment, I seize Menewa's arm.

Again, that electrical surge. It flows through all three of us, and an image suddenly manifests itself into our consciousness.  
I see a palace. Standing before us on white steps, a man wearing a black uniform with a red cape and silver armour. He bows his head slightly, and offers us a benevolent smile.

The shock makes Menewa abruptly back away, which causes me to stumble while the young man falls back upon the bench.  
"_Ma che cazzo…?_" he exclaims, in complete disbelief.  
"Did you… Did you see that, Arad?" Menewa cries.  
"Yes. I think all three of us did. From our respective viewpoints."  
"You mean—"  
"It must be another shared memory."  
"That man. Was he the one from your dream?"  
"I don't know. He might have been."  
"What's going on?" the art student asks. "What was that? What did you do to me?"  
"We didn't do anything," Menewa retorts. "Other than find the guy we were looking for."  
"Who?"  
"You," I answer, drawing closer to the stranger.  
_He looks up at me so solemnly._  
"What is your name?" I ask.  
"Raffaele Lanza," he says, standing up.

I place my hand on his shoulder, close my eyes like I did with Menewa. Feel the cosmic energy that flows between us.  
And recognize a fellow soul.

"You are one of the Heavenly Kings, Raffaele."  
"Me?" he whispers.  
"Untie your scarf," I order him, and he promptly complies.  
_As though he is used to obeying me._  
Unveiling a glowing stone around his neck.

"Oh great. Of all people, it had to be this guy," Menewa complains, folding his arms.  
"How did you know about my Zoisite pendant? And why is it glowing?"  
"Because it has found ours," I inform Raffaele as I pull out my own stone. Menewa reluctantly does the same.  
"Who are… the Heavenly Kings?"  
"We're not exactly sure."  
"But it's what you, and me, and Arad are," Menewa explains.  
I introduce myself to him.  
"I'm Arad Ozan."  
"And I'm Menewa Brennan."  
Raffaele just stares at us, not really knowing how to react.  
"The vision you just had was a buried memory," I explain. "One all three of us share, but have forgotten. I know how bizarre this must seem to you, but we were meant to find you."  
"It's not so bizarre to me," he calmly replies, and I wonder if he's been expecting our visit.  
"Another lifetime is hidden deep within us, Raffaele. Our souls are old, and carry many secrets. We must reunite with all our fellow Heavenly Kings, so that we may recover our memories, and awaken."  
_Like Menewa, Raffaele brings me clarity through his presence._  
"Secrets?"  
"Yes. Have you never experienced glimpses of past knowledge?"  
"I feel as though I've always known everything about the stars," Menewa says.  
"And I, about ancient philosophy," I add.  
"Glimpses of past knowledge?"

Raffaele turns away from us, takes a look around the room.  
"Like feeling that all the pieces in this museum are mere imitations of far greater work? That they pale in comparison to the art you've seen elsewhere? At a different time?"  
He wraps his arms around himself, and shivers.  
"It's like I have watched another Europe bloom," he says. "And personally revelled in its former magnificence."  
At last, he faces us again.  
"Is that what you mean by 'glimpses of past knowledge'? Because if that's the case, then I've had them all my life."  
"So have we," I tell him.  
"How… How did you find me?"  
"I was lead to both of you by a dream, and by coordinates that mysteriously flowed out of my mind. I don't know who directed my hand when I wrote them down."  
_Or what._  
"Our destinies are tied together," I continue. "And far greater than those of ordinary men."  
"They must be," Raffaele declares. "Do you know why I was here, today? Why I'm always here? I'm trying to familiarize myself with the collection of this museum. To memorize each piece and its exact location. I'm doing all this, because I'd like to become the curator of the Uffizi gallery one day. I long to expand it, bring new life to it."  
Menewa and I glance at each other.  
"I am unsatisfied with the way things are," Raffaele says. "Like all I see around me are vestigial replicas of a higher era. A Russian poet once said that art must not be concentrated in dead shrines called museums. I long to see art _everywhere_, as I am _sure_ I once did."  
He inclines his head, ceremoniously ties his scarf back around his neck.  
"I want movement, glory. Not this dull, unfulfilling existence I've been imposed. I dream of a new Golden Age, and know that I am destined to help usher it in."  
"We truly have found you, our Third Heavenly King," I say, addressing Raffaele.  
"What do you expect of me?" he asks.  
"We must go and find the Fourth Heavenly King. Are you prepared to follow us?"  
"Where to?"  
"Hong Kong. To the Wong Tai Sin Temple."  
Seemingly unsure, he examines us, our every curve and crease and proportion, as he would examine marble statues.  
"I want to, but… I don't know if I can trust you. Are we old friends, or old _rivals?_"  
"Friends," Menewa cuts in, steadfast and confident. "At least, _Arad_ and I are."  
"I did behave rather badly with you," Raffaele admits. "Didn't I?"  
"That's an understatement."  
"I'm sorry."  
Shrugging, Menewa accepts his apology.  
"No biggie. You're lucky I didn't smash your face in, though. Because I would've, believe me."

The museum guard returns, and interrupts us. He seems rather displeased.  
"_Basta con le chiacchiere_," he warns us. "This is not a meeting room. Take your conversation outside."  
Raffaele makes a dismissive gesture towards him.  
"_Va bene, va bene!_"  
He picks up his notebook, and we follow him outside.

III.

We take a walk together along the river Arno, and spend the next few minutes in silence. Raffaele's inner thoughts are in motion. He debates with himself, weighs reason against madness, as I did on the shores of the Bosphorus. His long hair is tied back, and appears like a streaming flame in the afternoon sun. How young and inexperienced he looks, and yet, how wisely he spoke after his stone began to glow.

"So, kid, where'd you get that Zoisite of yours?" Menewa inquires, tired of waiting for me to tug Raffaele out of his quiet hesitation.  
"This? A woman in an opulent costume gave it to me when I was little. It was in Venice, during the _Carnevale_. It fell off her headdress, and she just offered it to me. I'd been staring insistently at the jewels on her outfit. I've never parted with it since."  
Menewa shares his own story, and I, mine. It has become clear to us that our stones were fated to belong to us.  
_How far have they travelled?_  
"In my dream, I was referred to as Kunzite," I remark.  
"Could it have been your name?" Raffaele wonders. "Your true name?"  
"I don't know. It does not feel like it is mine."  
"Neither do those shared memories of ours," Menewa says. "I mean, we recognize their existence, and yet, they don't feel like they belong to us yet."  
"When we are all reunited, perhaps this will change," I reply. "The seal will be broken, and we will truly _remember_. For now, we are staring at our own memories from the outside, as mere spectators."  
"Well then, we need to find all the Heavenly Kings," Raffaele declares as he stops to sit on the low brick wall that flanks the river. I can almost predict his next gestures. He pushes back a lock of hair behind his ear, gives a sideway glance. Then, he brings his legs up, and holds them close to his chest.  
Menewa sits next to him, while I stand.  
"So are you coming with us, kid?" he asks him.  
"Yes," he answers. "But on one condition."  
"What's that?"  
"You'll have to stop calling me kid."  
"Sure, kid. Whatever you say."  
Raffaele glares at Menewa, who offers him an impertinent grin.

A girl in a turquoise dress strolls passed us. Her short dark hair catches the light and seems almost blue. Raffaele observes her attentively, until she is out of sight.

"I'm guessing we are to leave as soon as possible?" he inquires.  
"Yes," I reply.  
"I can skip a week or two of classes. It's not like I'm behind on the material. On the contrary. I spend all my free time in museums, studying. There is one problem, though. Money. I don't think I have enough for a plane ticket right now."  
"I'll buy it for you," I tell him.  
"Really?"  
"Of course."  
He looks up at me with the gratitude of a younger brother.  
"If I'd have known of your generosity, Arad, I'd have claimed a lack of funds, too," Menewa says.  
"I'll pay you back," Raffaele promises.  
"He should at least buy us supper though, right, Arad?"  
I give no answer. The river is distracting me. It glistens and churns, and seems to whisper to me. I begin to feel restless, agitated.

Why am I unable to rejoice? Now, I am no longer alone. I have two Heavenly Kings by my side, and soon, I will finally know the true purpose of my existence. But the happiness that swells in my heart is somehow being poisoned by grief. My hope has a shadow; its name is Despair. And my joy has an imperfect reflection; its name is Sorrow.

The closer I draw to my memories, the stronger the duality within me.


	4. Jadeite

**Chapter 4: Jadeite**

I.

In a place of burning incense and rattling sticks, we search for a Heavenly King.

Smoke rises in front of the red pillars of the main altar, reaching for the golden roof and its multi-coloured carvings. Worshippers kneel outside before the shrine, and we observe them as they whisper and shake the cylindrical cups they hold with both hands. Every now and then, a single stick falls out, and a number is revealed.

"It's called Kau Cim," Raffaele explains, reading from the travel book he purchased at the airport. "A form of fortune telling. It's practiced in Taoist and Buddhist temples. The stick that falls out has a number, corresponding to a fortune you can interpret yourself or have interpreted for you."  
"That's pretty cool," Menewa says. "Hey, maybe we could give it a shot. Ask where to find our fourth Heavenly King."  
"I don't think it works that way."  
"Do you have a better idea? Because judging by the amount of people here, we're looking for a needle in a haystack."  
"Maybe he's a monk or something. I mean, why assume he's a worshipper?"  
"He might be," I answer, staring distractedly at the red and yellow lanterns above. "But nothing is sure, other that the fact he must be wearing a stone around his neck."  
"Yeah," Menewa says, folding his arms. "A lot of help _that_ is. So far, I must have seen at least five people with a jade pendent. Shall I go shake their hands and see if any weird memory surfaces?"  
"Why are you so cranky?" Raffaele asks him, exasperated.  
"Because I'm hungry, that's why."  
"Already? We ate two hours ago!"  
"So? That's long enough."  
"Really, Menewa? You want to eat _again?_" I ask him, a little annoyed myself.  
"It's not my fault, okay? I've a big appetite. It stems from my childhood. The Creek women in my community spoiled me. They used to fight over who got to brush my hair or bring me food. Prepared all sorts of dishes for me. They were crazy about me."  
"_Santo cielo!_" Raffaele cries.  
"But in the interest of our cause, I will consent to starving for little while longer. Now, I'm going to try shaking those fortune sticks, to see what happens. Since you two are obviously too chicken to do it."  
I smirk, and let him proceed. He gets a cup, and mixes the sticks. Then, he chooses a spot where he kneels down, and Raffaele guides him through the next steps. Menewa closes his eyes, and asks a question.

_"Where is our fellow Heavenly King?"_

Then, he tips the cylinder slightly downwards, and begins to shake it. Eventually, a stick drops onto the floor. An old man, who is praying right next to us, notices that we are complete beginners, and offers to help. He fetches us the corresponding piece of paper, then hands Menewa two jiaobei blocks, and tells him to toss them so as to verify the validity of the answer. They both land on their flat side, and the old man gives Menewa a big tap on the back.  
"They're laughing at you, young man."  
"Who?"  
"The deities. Your question must be very silly."  
"They're _laughing _at me?"  
"Yes."  
"Who do they think they are?"  
"Well, they're deities."  
"What does the oracle on the paper say, anyway?"  
"It does not matter," the stranger replies. "The answer is not valid."  
He grins, crumpling the piece of paper, then hands it over to Menewa before resuming his prayers. Menewa scrambles to read it, but his eyes meet with Chinese characters, and he gives it up.  
"Whatever," he mutters, throwing the paper away. "It was worth a shot."

II.

From one of the memorial archways, we admire the high-rise buildings surrounding the temple grounds. The Lion Rock is visible from here, and I examine its strange shape, the way it almost looks to me like a stone wave.

We head for the next pavilion and sit down for a few moments. Hundreds of men walk passed us, and we are overwhelmed. We've been wandering around for over three hours, and the sun is beginning to set. Menewa sighs, while Raffaele opens his travel book in an attempt to cure his own boredom.  
"The arch gate we saw at the entrance," he says, "is meant to ward off evil spirits. Says here carvings, spirals and swirls confuse them, keep them at bay. Hence the elaborate architecture."  
"That's interesting. In Native culture, we believe evil spirits hide in 90 degree angles. So none of our traditional constructions had any," Menewa remarks.  
"You must hate living in New York."  
"Not really. I mean, not because of that. The one thing I couldn't stand when I first arrived there, was the lack of stars in the sky. City lights are too bright. It drove me insane. I couldn't take it."  
"What did you do to adjust?" I ask.  
"I went out to a toy store and got, like, ten bags of those glow-in-the-dark stars. Stuck 'em all over my bedroom ceiling. And I respected their relative position to each other in the sky I'd see at midnight from that exact location. Constellations and all. I'd switch my stars around every season. My friends thought I was crazy. But all my girlfriends liked it. Thought it was a bit childish at first, but when I got to explaining how precise it all was, they thought it was pretty damn awesome. Haven't removed them since."  
Raffaele rolls his eyes, and pretends to read on.  
"I don't know, I guess… I feel like I can't live without seeing the stars."  
"I am uneasy when there is no ocean or sea in sight," I say.  
"Really?"  
"Yes. I grew up in a small town near the Mediterranean sea, in the South of the Turkey. I liked to sit on the the rooftop of my house, and just stare at the glistening water in the distance. When I moved to Istanbul, I tried to find an apartment as close as possible to the sea."  
"What kind of kid were you, Arad? I bet you were the quiet, bookworm type."  
"Not really."  
"Seriously?"  
"I did like to read, but I had trouble with authority. I thought nobody worthy of my obedience. I was always getting myself into trouble. Despite it all, I was known as _Melek_; 'the angel'. Because of my hair colour. I found it strange, because when I looked in the mirror, I couldn't see any wings."  
_The were ripped out, long ago, and torn to pieces.  
My innocence, desecrated._

I pause, baffled by my own thoughts. Menewa just looks at me, while I shift, cross and uncross my legs.  
"When I was a child, I was quite difficult and unsociable," Raffaele says. "Because I thought everyone too vulgar and uncultured for my taste. I liked to flip through art albums all day. It was a miracle when I asked to take horse riding lessons. Because it meant I actually wanted to go outside."  
"You two are freaks," Menewa declares. "I was a perfectly well-adjusted kid."  
"Well _good for you,_" Raffaele sneers.  
Menewa seems amused. He decides that the best way to slight Raffaele, is to ignore him.  
"Say, Arad, what do we do now? We're losing the sunlight and it doesn't look like our Heavenly King is gonna show."

I remain silent. A dark energy seems to saturate the air. Like humidity, it makes it hard for me to breathe. All the spirals of the pagodas and gates around us are futile in chasing this evil away.  
_Because it comes from within._

"Arad?"  
I snap out of my daze, and my eyes finds Menewa's. For a brief moment, I feel as though I recognize him. _Truly_ recognize him. But it is only a fleeting impression. He speaks, and the sentiment vanishes.  
"Should we head back to the hotel for now?" he continues.  
"Let's take a last turn through the temple grounds," I say. "And then call it a day."

III.

On our way out, we cross the bridge over the pond. We have been unable to find what we were looking for, and have resolved to return to our hotel. But as we step onto the stone structure, a delicate, silky melody reaches our ears.

We stop mid-way and listen, in awe. I shut my eyes and concentrate, my mind attempting to retrieve something from the inner void.  
_I have heard this song before._  
There is something so familiar about it. Its quiet melancholy, the manner in which it flows, like an endless river. I know every peak and hollow, and anticipate every exquisite motion. My heart encompasses the melody, as though it has already contained it.

"That's funny. I know this song," Menewa observes.  
"So do I," Raffaele says.  
"You're into Chinese music?"  
"No. Are you?"  
"Nope."  
"I know it as well," I tell them.  
"Maybe it's a very famous song," Raffaele supposes.  
"It's possible."

Intrigued, we look up at the green-roofed pavilion ahead. A crowd seems to have gathered there.  
"Let's go check it out," Menewa suggests, and doesn't wait for our answer. He has already left the bridge.

We climb the stairs of the memorial archway that leads to the pavilion we are interested in. As we make our way through the swarm of people, Menewa boldly elbows everyone out of the way.

At last, we stand before the musician. A young man with short, golden hair, wearing a black velvet stand collar jacket with an impeccable white shirt underneath it. He sits on a stool and rests an Erhu on his left thigh. With his right hand, he strokes the strings of the instrument with a red bow, and appears utterly transported.

He has a noble face and elegant hands. We watch him play for a while, and the crowd only gets bigger. There are even people listening from the bridge.

"Do you think it might be him?" Menewa whispers.  
"Can't see if he's wearing a stone pendant," Raffaele replies.  
"He sure _looks_ the part."  
"There's something about him, isn't there?"  
"What should we do, Arad?"  
I briefly consider the situation.  
"Our instinct seems to be pushing us towards him. We should wait for him to finish his performance, then try to talk to him afterwards…"  
"If anything, we can ask him about the song," Menewa adds.  
"Yes."  
After taking in a round of applause, the musician begins a new melody. He inclines his head, looks up to scan the crowd, and accidentally stares into my eyes. But he immediately redirects his attention upon his bow. The warm glow of the lanterns hanging over him touches his skin and illuminates it as the evening darkness grows thicker, and the melodies, sadder.

At the end of the fourth song, he takes the bow in his left hand, to hold it up with his instrument, which he cups in his right hand as he rises and bows to his public. There is cheering and applause, until the crowd finally begins to disperse. Our musician zips open his bag, and carefully puts his erhu away.

"Now's the moment!" Menewa says, and is about to step forward, when Raffaele stops him.  
"Leave it to me. This is a cultured man. _Un tipo sofisticato_. You don't just walk up to him as you would to a street merchant."  
"Who said I was gonna — "  
"Let him handle it," I intervene.  
Menewa nods, and we follow Raffaele's lead.

The musician is now folding his stool. We draw nearer and he notices us, but says nothing.  
"That was very beautiful," Raffaele compliments him. "Your playing. We really enjoyed it."  
He faces us, and nods.  
"Thank you. I'm glad you liked it."  
"Liked it? We _loved it._ _Molto bello._ Are you a professional?"  
"Me? No, I'm just a music student at the Academy for Performing Arts. I come to the temple very often, and know some of the monks here. They asked me to play in the garden at sundown for a few weeks."  
"We were lucky to hear you today."  
"I assume you are tourists?"  
"Yes. I'm from Italy, and my friends here are from Turkey and the United States, respectively."  
"Ah. I hope you're enjoying Hong Kong?"  
"We are. Tell me, how long have you been playing the erhu?"  
"About fifteen years. I started at a young age."

I can tell that Menewa is getting restless. He must find the small talk too long-winded for his taste.  
"So what's your name?" he abruptly asks, taking everyone off-guard.  
"My name? It's Shen. Shen Fyodorov."  
Before Menewa can reach out to shake his hand, Shen turns away to pick up his bag.  
"Fyodorov? So you're Russian," Raffaele remarks.  
"By origin. I was born and raised in Beijing, and given a Chinese surname. Honestly, I feel more Chinese than Russian."  
He holds the handles of his bag very tightly, and patiently waits for us to dismiss him. But we have no intention of letting him go just yet.  
"That song you were playing earlier," I say. "Just as people started gathering on the bridge. What was it? All three of us seem to have recognized it."  
"Yes, it sounded very familiar," Menewa adds. "But we're not accusing you of plagiarism of anything like that."  
"Familiar?" Shen inquires. "Are you sure?"  
"Quite sure."  
"Really?"  
"Yes."  
"You…"  
"We've all heard it before, but cannot tell exactly where," I explain.  
He puts his instrument down.  
"That's impossible."  
"Why?"  
I search his blue irises, and see them quiver and shift as he searches mine.  
"Because _I_ wrote that composition. And because I've never played it in public before."

He raises his left hand to nervously pass his fingers through his hair. Under his sleeve, I notice, for the first time, the necklace that is tied around his wrist. Dangling from the chain, a bright green stone. Menewa and Raffaele spot it as well, and they both give me a victorious glance.  
"Surely, you are mistaken," he insists.  
"No, Shen," I retort. "Perhaps there is a reason why we know your song."  
"My song," he utters. "I'm not even sure that it _is_ my song."  
"What do you mean?"  
"I don't really know which are truly my compositions, and which are melodies I have heard in a past life. Do you know how tormenting that can be for an artist?"  
Suddenly, he appears embarrassed. Probably wondering why he is saying such things to complete strangers.  
"Forgive me, I'm not making any sense."  
He picks up his things and tries to retreat, but my fellow Kings and I each place a hand on his shoulders, and back.

The current rushes through us with the force of a storm. This time, we see a woman with blood-red hair. The one from my dream. She stands before us, and I am kissing her hand. A shadow rises from her, and blackens the sky over our heads.  
_Who is she?_

Shen stands still, completely immobilized, while we pull away. He won't turn to look at us, as though he cannot believe we are truly there.  
"What… what was that?" he asks us.  
"It was an old memory."  
He remains unmoved.  
"As is your song. A memory all four of us share."  
_One we cannot yet understand._  
"So my past life has come to haunt me," he says. "I wonder. What kind of man was I?"  
I walk around him, and place myself right in front of him. He lifts his head, and I close my eyes. Grip his shoulder as I gripped Raffaele's.  
"You were a _Heavenly King._"

As expected, his stone begins to glow. I point it out to him, and he lifts his wrist above eye level, pushes back his sleeve to have a closer look at his necklace. The pendant slowly swings back and forth, like a pendulum.  
"It's never glowed like this before."  
"What kind of stone is it?" I ask him.  
"…A Jadeite. When I was boy, I… found it in a Beijing temple. I brought it to the monk in charge, but he told me to keep it on me for its mystical force. Which I did, to this very day."  
Menewa and Raffaele join me, and we show him our own stones. Tell him our names, and how pleased we are to have finally found him.  
"I knew you would come for me, sooner or later," Shen declares, sitting down on the pavilion bench. "You are my fate."  
He places his instrument and his stool at his feet, and stares blankly.  
"Your fate?" Menewa inquires.  
"And my past. It's all becoming so clear to me now. Remember how I told you that I come here often? To practice Kau Cim. Every day, I ask the same question to the deities. _Where am I headed?_ I shake the cup, watch a stick fall out. Always the same number. Always the same fortune. It's been like this for five years now."  
Raffaele takes a seat right next to him.  
"What does your fortune say?"  
"I've had it interpreted by several people. Always the same thing. That I will reap the harvest of a past life. Good or bad, I do not know."  
He pauses, then continues.  
"You mentioned that I was a Heavenly King. What did you mean by it?"  
"A dream lead me to all three of you," I reply. "I am to find my fellow Heavenly Kings, whatever they are."  
"Our past incarnation?"  
_At last, it has been put into words._  
"Yes, Shen. That is who we were. And still are, it seems."  
"And what is our fate? _Our purpose?_"  
"For now, it is to recover our memories."  
"Memories… Is this what they are? My compositions, I mean. All my life, people have praised me for writing beautiful songs. But I've always had the feeling that they weren't mine. Just forgotten melodies, mistaken for my own creations. I've also been admired for playing ancient songs so well. Without fault. Songs I learned on my own, without any kind of partition. Songs that just… seeped out of me. I am no prodigy, despite what people say about me."  
"Like us, you possess glimpses of past knowledge," I explain. "Knowledge from your past life."  
"Could I recover it all? Everything I once knew?"  
"It is precisely what we hope to do. All of us."  
"Tell me, Shen," Menewa cuts in. "Why such an interest for your future? To come here every day and ask the same question…"  
"…Because I feel that I am somehow meant to represent the past. I long to keep it alive. But not just through my music. There must be more. And I think you will bring me to my fate."  
"Will you come with us, then?"  
"Where are you going?"  
"When I woke up from my dream, I wrote down four different coordinates. Three of which have lead me to Menewa, to Raffaele, and to you. Only one remains. It must be the location of our our last Heavenly King."  
_Or our master._  
"And where is that?"  
"Japan."  
"My future has been foretold to me for five years now. I have waited long enough for it to happen. Without hesitation, I will follow you, Arad."  
How serious and determined he is. I have known his character before, admired him for it as I do now. In another lifetime, when he placed all his trust in me, as he has done now.

"Glad to have you onboard, Shen," Menewa proclaims, hand on waist.  
"Finally, I'll have a more artistically-inclined person around," Raffaele says. "With a philosopher and an astrophysicist, what's an art history student to do?"  
I smile, and stare at Shen. Force myself to imagine him in a different context. In another era, on the front steps of a white palace.

But the only image I can summon is that of a black veil, pulled tightly over his face and across his throat. Trapping, strangling him as he gasps for air, his mouth wide open, and his eyes full of fear.


	5. Endymion

**Chapter 5: Endymion**

I.

We step onto the platform of the Azabu-Jūban Station, and the subway train departs.

It rushes passed us and we just stand there, unsure of what we should do. Now that we have arrived, the task of finding the last Heavenly King seems more daunting than ever. All around us, haste, agitation, noise. The station is crowded, and there are signs everywhere, each of them pulling us in a different direction.

"Why did we have to come down here so early in the morning, anyway?" Menewa wonders as he folds his arms.  
"Many people commute at this time of the day," I answer him. "So we have greater chances of running into the man we're looking for."  
"He's supposed to be down here? In the station?"  
"This is where the coordinates lead us. But they could be referring to the Azabujuban neighbourhood itself, with the Station as its center point."  
"Oh, great."  
"I guess we should scour the underground first?" Shen inquires.  
"I don't know. Something tells me he's not here."  
Raffaele turns to look at me.  
"You can feel his presence now?"  
"It's just an intuition."  
_Or unconscious knowledge.  
Stemming from an ancient bond._  
Shrugging, Menewa walks over to a vending machine. We join him, and Raffaele unfolds our map.  
"I think I'll have some of that neon juice," Menewa announces, digging into his jeans pockets for some change. "I like the way the lemon character on the package is staring at me with those goggly eyes."  
"I don't understand this map at all," Raffaele says, ignoring him. "Which exit should we take?"  
"Pick a random one," Menewa suggests as he inserts some coins into the machine. "It's not like it matters."  
Shen reaches out of the map.  
"May I?"  
Nodding, Raffaele gladly hands it over to him.  
"I know a little Japanese," Shen explains. "I studied it a while back, as a complementary course."  
Menewa congratulates him, then presses a few buttons. A bottle of juice finally drops out of the takeout port. He eagerly grabs it and twists the cap open while Shen takes a moment to study the map.

Two girls, who stared at us during entire the subway ride, approach us. They're both wearing a school uniform.  
Red bow, blue sailor's collar, and pleated skirt.  
"Excuse me," one of them says, looking up at me with admiration, "but are you guys a… _boy band_?"  
Menewa nearly spits out his drink.  
"Who, us?" he chuckles. "What makes you say that?"  
"You are all so dreamy," the other girl admits, and immediately turns red.  
"Hear that, Arad? We're dreamy," Menewa replies, nudging me.  
"Are you here on tour? Are you from Korea?"  
"Or maybe you're some new band we haven't yet heard of?" her friend asks.  
"Can we have your autographs?"  
Embarrassed, Shen tries to hide behind his map. Raffaele snubs them, while I politely decline. Before I can explain that we are not, in fact, a boy band, Menewa puts his drink down and signs the girls' notebooks, then sends them off with a smile and a wink.  
"You're such a show-off, Menewa," Raffaele groans.  
"I figure if you can make someone happy, you should just go for it," he replies, then has a sip of juice.  
Meanwhile, Shen begins to fold the map away.  
"Have you decided in which direction we should go?" I ask him.  
"Yes. Let's take exit 4," he says. "It leads to a commercial street."  
We proceed through some corridors. As we walk, Raffaele and Menewa trail behind us, bickering, while Shen remains at my side.  
"Arad?" he says.  
"Yes?"  
"I've been wanting to ask you something."  
"What is it, Shen?"  
"That vision we had. The memory… Who was that woman? And why were you kissing her hand?"  
"I don't know."  
"Might she have been… our master?"  
"It's rather confusing. You see, when Menewa and I met Raffaele, a similar image surfaced in our minds. Only this time, we were bowing before a man. The same one from my dream."  
"The man in silver armour."  
"I think so."  
"Arad, I don't think we're looking for a fifth Heavenly King. I think these coordinates will lead us to the person we're supposed to serve."  
"I have sensed it for a while now."  
"You have?"  
"Yes."  
He weighs my answer for a moment, then asks me another question.  
"Do you believe in devotion, Arad? In living for someone else?"  
"It depends on whom you choose to dedicate your life to. Devotion can either mean freedom, or slavery."  
"How?"  
"There is a fine line between self-denial, and self-betrayal. One is freedom, the other, enslavement."  
Shen nods, stares contemplatively at the floor underneath the soles of his black canvas shoes. Then the corridor ends, and we take the escalators that lead to the surface.

II.

The first thing we see outside is a tea shop called _The Darjeeling_. We steer Menewa away from the pastry-filled glass counter, and take a look around. Across the street to our right, there is a café. Behind the station exit, a wide boulevard, and further away, a series of highway bridges.  
"So what should we be looking for?" Shen asks.  
"A guy wearing a stone pendant," Menewa says. "But from experience, he'll manifest himself to us one way or another. I walked up to Arad at the planetarium, Raffaele insulted me at the museum, and you summoned us with your song, Shen. All we have to do is hang around, I guess."  
"I see."  
"_Bene_, I could really use an espresso right now," Raffaele says. "I didn't get the chance to have one at the hotel."  
"For once, Raffaele, I completely agree with you," Menewa proclaims. "The kid's right, Arad. We should sit down for a few minutes. Keep an eye on this subway exit."  
"I do think we should linger here for a while," I answer, without knowing why.

We walk over to the café, where we quickly order our coffee. Afterwards, we sit on the bench facing the street, on a small terrace where five tables are carefully aligned, and we wait.  
Menewa settles right next to me, and pours pouch after pouch of sugar in his mocha. He takes a bite out of the sandwich he couldn't resist buying and Raffaele glares at him, while Shen drinks his green tea in silence. My coffee rests on the round table before me, and slowly turns cold.

If I move, I will lose the delicate certainty that is filling my heart. I stare at my cup, and try to concentrate. To cancel out the surrounding noise, to listen to the counsel coming from within. To pick up the thread that only my mind can perceive.  
_He is near._  
I lift my gaze, and the world flows by like a slow river. All the faces of people are blurred. They lose their colours, their features, and I am staring at a stream of ghosts.

But suddenly, one person stands out. He walks amongst the spirits, holding a book in one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other. His short hair is black, and he is wearing reading glasses and a school uniform. How vividly he appears to me. Like a lighthouse in the middle of an ocean. Like a man in silver armour, reflecting the splendour of the sun.

I rise. Menewa does too.  
"Did you see that, Arad?"  
"What?" Shen inquires.  
Something is burning my skin. I check my pendant, and see that it is glowing brighter than ever. So is Menewa's, and everyone else's. Shen's hands trembles as he looks at the pendant around his wrist.  
"Our stones, they're…"  
"He looked like… the man we saw in the vision, when we met Raffaele," Menewa interrupts him.  
"He's going to cross the boulevard!" Raffaele cries, tipping over his unfinished coffee cup as he leaves his table.  
Quickly, we rush over to the other side of the street, hurry passed the station exit. Travel against the current of the crowd that gets in our way.  
But before we can reach him, the young man has already crossed the boulevard.  
"Come on, come on!" Menewa says as we wait for the green light.  
_The red is insistent, the red refuses to yield._  
The black-haired stranger is at a bus stop now. We see him check his watch, give a sideway glance.  
"Oh, no! The bus! It's there!" Shen cries.  
"That's it! I'm going through!" Menewa warns us, and sprints across the boulevard, braving the traffic. Tire screech and cars divert around him, and somehow, he makes it to the sidewalk unharmed.

Unfortunately, the young man has already climbed aboard bus 86. Despite Menewa's frantic efforts to stop it, the vehicle leaves.  
"_Dannazione!_" Raffaele screams, and we helplessly watch our stranger slip by.

"What now?" Shen asks, once we have all returned to the café.  
"He had a school uniform," I reply. "Shen, I think you should check the map and see what schools are nearby. And Menewa, you find out what route this bus takes."  
"I'm on it," Menewa says.  
He pulls out his phone and finds that he has seven unread messages. He gives them no attention and assists Shen. After a short debate, they conclude that the man was probably heading westward, to Azabu High School.  
"The next bus is in, like, 30 minutes," Menewa tells us.  
"Is the school far from here?" I ask.  
"No, not really. Maybe 15 minutes away, on foot."  
"_Walk_," a strange voice whispers in my ear.  
"Then we should just walk," I propose. "Try to find him there."  
"Good idea."  
We leave our coffee cups behind, this time for good, and follow the street we are already on.

At some point, we pass an arcade. Menewa stops, takes a peek inside. There is a crown logo on the sign above his head.  
"Man, I remember when I used to play _Street Fighter II_ back in the '90s," he says. "We only had one machine in my hometown, and it was at the local diner, of all places. I would have killed for an arcade like this."  
"Videogames are a waste of time," Raffaele declares.  
"Well _excuse me_, Mr. Arts and Culture. Not everyone liked to flip through art albums all day when they were young."  
Although he would have probably preferred to remain serious, Raffaele chuckles.  
"I like karaoke better," Shen admits.  
"You're into _karaoke?_" Menewa cries.  
"Uh, yeah…"  
"I didn't picture you as the kind of guy who likes karaoke. I mean, you're this amazing erhu player, and it just seems so… beneath you."  
"Not at all. It's really fun."  
"You got a good voice?"  
"It's alright."

Their voices fade, and I know that my friends have already gone. Menewa turns around, notices that I am still standing by the arcade door.  
Something about this place makes me want to stay right where I am. As though I expect someone to arrive at any moment. To open the door, and invite me in with a familiar smile.  
"You coming, Arad?"  
"Yes," I answer, and finally manage to walk away.

III.

We take a narrow street southwards, and something strange occurs to me. My soul feels heavy, like a wooden cup brimming with water. I place my hand on my chest, and realize how fast my heart is beating.  
_Where am I leading my fellow Heavenly Kings?_

"Aren't you going to read your new messages, Menewa?" Shen says. "I couldn't help but seeing how many you had."  
"Uhm, yeah. They're mostly from this girl. She's got a crush on me, but I don't want to lead her on."  
"I envy you. The girl I like doesn't even know I _exist_. She's this ballet dancer at school."  
"What about you, Raffaele? Got anyone waiting for you back home?"  
"I have a girlfriend, but we're angry at each other right now," he replies. "We got into an argument over impressionism. I don't think I want to date art students anymore. I always have better taste, and it creates conflict."  
"Right. Anyway, Shen. You should talk to that girl, you know? She might seem hard to approach, but in the end, I'm sure she's just like you and me."  
"I _hope_ not," Raffaele comments.  
"Don't be like Arad here, too busy with his books to date anyone. It's not worth it. No offense to Plato and the like."  
"None taken," I say, still preoccupied.  
_Should I tell them?_  
"But come on, Arad, you did have someone at some point, right?"  
"Sure."  
"Who was she?"  
_Yes, who?_  
"Leave him alone, Menewa," Raffaele says. "Don't you see he doesn't want to talk about it?"  
"Well look who's elected himself Arad's protector!"  
"Do you ever shut up?"  
"Do you ever stop being a brat?"

I stop in front of a temple gate, and turn to face them.  
"Something's wrong," I say.  
"What?"  
"I can't explain it, I just…"

Suddenly, the flapping of black wings.  
Two crows come out of nowhere, and begin to fly in ominous circles above our heads. Shen stares up at them, and becomes like paralyzed.  
"What the…?" Menewa cries.  
"Maybe we should go," Raffaele says, nervously tugging at the strap of his bag.  
"Wait… They're slowing down."  
One of the birds completes a last circle, then dives. But instead of attacking us, unexpectedly lands on Shen's right shoulder. Shen automatically raises his arm, and the other crow comes to rest upon it.  
"Okay, this is creepy," Menewa declares, stepping back.  
As he turns to look at the temple, Shen's eyes finally find the gate. He crosses the street and draws nearer to it, strokes the stone sign at the entrance with his left hand.  
"_Hikawa Shrine_," he reads out loud.  
The voice resonates through my head again.  
_"Find me, Kunzite."_  
"Shen," I say. "It's time to go."  
"Why?" he utters.  
"Because our Master awaits."  
Shen gives me an obedient glance. Nodding, he sends the crows away, and watches them as they soar into the sky.

Up ahead, rainclouds seem to have gathered at the end of the street. We consult the map and find that we are about to arrive at an intersection called Sendaizakaue.  
"After that, we need to take the first street to our right, and the school shouldn't be too far," Raffaele explains, replacing Shen, who has fallen into silence.  
"Seems simple enough," Menewa says. "Do you think it's going to rain? I don't have an umbrella."  
"Neither do I."  
Taking his phone out of his pocket, Menewa endeavours to check the weather forecast. The screen lights up, and he rapidly sweeps his thumb across it.  
"That's funny. It's not supposed to rain today."

He is even more baffled when he sees rain falling at the bizarre intersection.

Dark clouds hang above the five slopes of Sendaizakaue. Water pours down from the sky like an interminable curtain of glass strings. The asphalt is wet, but the streets are suddenly empty. No cars, no pedestrians. There is nobody around, except for us. As though we are unaware of a curse known to all of Tokyo.

"How is this possible?" Raffaele wonders, holding out his hand to feel the heavy raindrops fall on his palm.  
"It's almost like some kind of spatial anomaly," Menewa says as we head for the middle of the intersection.  
The rain soaks us, drenches our clothes. My hair clings to my face, covers my left eye. I cannot push it away. I cannot even move my neck. I am drawn to a wall straight ahead, on which I place my hand.

_Ripples on a black lake. _  
A shadow expands across the wall, and by the time I realize what is happening, the darkness sucks us in, and swallows us whole.


	6. Beryl

**Chapter 6: Beryl**

I.

Face pressed against a cold stone floor, I wake up in a palace of howling winds. My eyes adjust to the oppressive darkness as I drag my trembling fingers along the smooth surface underneath me, and push myself up.

I quickly scan my surroundings, and notice Menewa lying on his back right next to me. Raffaele and Shen are there as well, a little further away. Leaning over, I grip Menewa's shoulder, call out his name.  
He finally opens his eyes and stares into mine.  
"What… What happened? Where are we?" he asks confusedly.  
We both look up at the vault ceiling far above our heads.  
"I don't know," I tell him, and watch a cloud of vapour rise from my mouth.

My entire body is shivering.

"Why am I here, in this starless place?" Menewa speaks, strangely out of character.  
I search the shadows for an answer, for a slithering tail behind the arches along the walls. For the scales of Abathur, the Judge of the Dead.  
_Is my soul about to be weighed?_  
I stand, refusing to be sentenced on my knees. A current of air brings my hair over my face, into my mouth. I peer through the white storm, defiant, yet ridden with terror.  
Menewa rises too, while Shen regains consciousness. Raffaele sits up, tries in vain to warm himself up.  
"My hands…" he says. "I can't feel my hands."  
_The numbness is unbearable._

We wait, expect something prophetic to occur. But time seems to stand still, and we are alone inside this endless hall.  
"Arad," Shen says. "We have to find a way out of here."  
Menewa snaps.  
"How? We don't even know _where_ we are!"  
"Staying here is of no use!"  
"Enough," I tell them, still examining the darkness. "We will walk."  
I give them no time to agree or disagree, and immediately lead the way. The other Heavenly Kings follow, as I take them deeper and deeper into the shadows.

"We must have gone through a wormhole," Menewa says, catching up with me. "An Einstein-Rosen bridge."  
"A… what?" Raffaele asks from behind.  
"It's a hypothetical passage through space-time, a sort of shortcut that connects two different points."  
"W-When you say 'hypothetical', you mean it's not necessarily… necessarily real?"  
"Looks pretty real to me!" Menewa angrily retorts.  
"And how do we go back?" Shen inquires.  
"We can't. Remember that black circle on the wall at Sendaizakaue? That was the wormhole, opening. Then we got sucked in… And it must have closed, because it was nowhere in sight when we woke up just now."  
"Will it open again?"  
"How should _I_ know? It's all hypothetical."  
"But you said…"  
"I believe there is a reason for our being here," I interrupt them.  
"What could it be? To think we were so close to finding our Master," Shen says.  
Raffaele is taken aback by this remark.  
"Our Master?"  
"Yes, Raffaele," I reply. "I think there are only Four Heavenly Kings. And that young man we saw, he must have been our Master in our previous life."  
"It does make sense," Menewa says. "When I saw him, I was in such awe. And when I crossed the street to get to him, I felt as though I could have braved anything for him."  
Raffaele grabs hold of my sleeve.  
"But if he's our Master, Arad, then why are we here, in this horrible place?"

I turn around, but cannot utter a single word. Embedded in the darkness, ten thousand luminescent eyes fix themselves upon me. They glow red, and yellow and blue, and they have no irises.  
"Arad?"  
Menewa wills his glance in their direction. The others see them too, and we begin to run. Our footsteps echo through the palace, our pulses increase. Shen trips, and we stop to help him get up. Then we carry on, until, to our utter despair, we reach the end of the hall.  
Frightened, we take a look behind us. But the eyes have closed. We stay right where we are, in front of two immense doors that reach up to the vault above, shivering as the cold gusts of wind cut through us like silver blades.

Menewa screams. He stares up at the air and tries to shield his face from an invisible threat.  
"The Day Star! The Day Star is collapsing!"  
Confused, I try to understand what he is talking about, but I suddenly realize that there is a steel collar around my neck. My hands are cuffed and I am chained to a rock. And as I glance down at my stomach, I see an open wound. An eagle bathes in my blood, and feeds on my liver.  
Stumbling through the darkness, Raffaele speaks of a den of lions. He howls and whimpers, begs not to be torn apart. Shen has his hands over his throat, and claims that he is being beheaded by an evil spirit with a bow.

_This is a nightmare, it must be a nightmare._

How can you dream when you are not asleep? How can a nightmare torment you when you are wide awake? My mind wants to reason, but my spirit is breaking. I slowly begin to resign myself to the absurdity of my fate, when the black doors open, and the visions subside.

II.

"What was that? What the _hell_ was that?" Menewa shouts, recovering from the shock.  
I examine my naked wrists while he keeps speaking.  
"Is everyone alright?"  
He receives no reply from us. Instead, a woman's voice emerges from the next room.  
"Come to me, my Heavenly Kings," she beckons, and we have no choice but to comply.

_There is nowhere else to go._

We walk into an altar room with a floor as reflective as a mirror. A dark figure stands on a dais, at the top of limestone stairs.  
"Who are you?" I demand, placing myself in front of my friends.  
"Who are _you_, Kunzite?"  
"That is not my name."  
"Yes, it is."  
"Show yourself to us. Stop hiding in the shadows!"  
"Very well."  
She surrounds herself with a red aura, and I recognize the woman from my dream. Her cruel gaze, and pale skin. Her wavy hair is now crimson; it floats upwards, revealing pointed ears. She is wearing a purple dress and has horns protruding from her shoulders. Her bony, elongated finger are wrapped around a staff that she holds beside her as she observes us from a distance.  
"I've been waiting for you," she says.  
"Who are you?" Menewa shouts, stepping forward.  
"I am your Master, _Nephrite_."  
"N… Nephrite?"  
"Our Master?" Shen inquires. "We saw our Master back in Tokyo. That young man with black hair. We were lead to him by Arad's coordinates!"  
"Of course you were, Jadeite."  
"What do you mean by that?" I ask. "How do you know? Did you lead us here all along? Was it all your doing?"  
I curl my fists.  
"Did you… put those coordinates in my head?"  
"I didn't need to, my wingless angel."

She descends the stairs, and walks over to us. Oh, how she reeks of blood. I want to recoil from her, but I can't, I simply can't.  
"That young man was indeed your Master, long ago. His name is _Endymion_, Crown Prince of what was once called the Earth Kingdom. You were created to serve him. All four of you. The Heavenly Kings, each with a region of Earth under your special protection."  
Smiling, the woman gets closer to me and strokes my cheek. I pull away in disgust, but she grabs the back of my neck, and kisses my ear.  
"You, Kunzite, were the Heavenly King of the Middle East."  
She leaves me, and walks over to Menewa. She cups his chin in her hand, inspects him as a buyer would inspect a slave.  
"You, my brave and valiant Nephrite, were the Heavenly King of North America."  
Slithering around him, she then reaches Raffaele, whom she presses against her like a child.  
"You, my beautiful Zoisite, were the Heavenly King of Europe."  
Finally, she pets Shen's golden hair.  
"And you, Jadeite, were the Heavenly King of the Far East."

The woman returns to me with a grin. She puts her hand on my chest, her fingers begin to unbutton my shirt. I want to stop her, but she locks me in her gaze.  
"Four noble creatures. And look at you now, reborn in this time to serve the same Master who betrayed you."  
"Be… Betrayed us?" I breathe as my heart begins to race.  
She simply stares into my eyes, but profanes me all the same. I ashamed of what she is doing to me, of what I am feeling in my body. The waves swell in my loins, grow in intensity as I give soft moans.  
"Yes, Kunzite. Endymion betrayed you. He sold the Earth to the Moon, and turned his back on his own protectors…"  
Oh, I am feverish, I want it to accelerate.  
"…subjected you to the Moon's servitude."  
I sail higher and higher, I am about to reach the peak, the highest wave of ecstasy.  
"…and made you his fools."  
I gasp, take her face in my hands. But she lowers her gaze, pushes me away right before the shuddering. I scream in frustration, my rages ignites. She smiles at me, and retreats while I struggle to regain my composure.

"You are bound to him, all four of you. The hands of fate will always drag you back to him. As the leader of the Heavenly Kings, you, Kunzite, have the strongest connection to Endymion. The coordinates did not come from me, or from anyone else. They came from _you_. For a few moments after you woke up from your dream, you were still in touch with your inner self. Your subconscious is where your old self resides, along with your knowledge of where Endymion and your fellow Heavenly Kings are at all times."  
_All this time, it was written within us._  
"You are like slaves to him. To this traitor. The magic stones you wear are the stones that were once incrusted in your swords. They made their way back to you, as tokens of your fellowship, and of your oath towards the Crown Prince of Earth. How pathetic that you were drawn to Endymion again, to serve the same imbecile who caused your ruin. But thankfully, I have managed to lead you here before you could bow to him again."  
"What do you want from us?" I ask, still out of breath.  
"I want to give you everything that you desire."  
"We want nothing to do with you."  
"Oh, but you do, Kunzite. You do. My philosopher, you seek to find meaning to your life? Don't let it be the same as it once was. To exist solely for Endymion. Serve the Dark Kingdom, and fulfill a far greater destiny."  
She glances over at Raffaele.  
"Zoisite, you dream of a new Golden Age. Follow me, and help me usher in the Golden Age of the Dark Kingdom. Find splendour in darkness, and it will satisfy you more than everything you beheld during the days of the Earth Kingdom."  
Now, she addresses Shen.  
"You want to keep the past alive, Jadeite? Then carry out the plans of the Dark Kingdom, and help the dark forces of old rise over this new world."  
She points her staff at Menewa.  
"And you, Nephrite. You want to remember all the things you once knew about the stars. I will give you more than that. I will give you the power of _gods_. You will be able to create stars, and bend them to your will. As you once did, when you served under me."  
"Served under you?"  
"Yes. We have met before, my Heavenly Kings. My name is Beryl. In the interest of the Earth, we formed an alliance to stop Endymion from handing our planet over to the Moon. I gave you powers, made you stronger than ever."  
Menewa seems dangerously interested.  
"Powers? You mean that I used to know how to bend the stars?"  
"Of course. Each of you were granted powers no human had ever possessed."  
"How?"  
"Buried in a crypt underneath this palace is the Daughter of the Sun. Metalia, our Great Ruler. She is the one who bestowed her blessings upon me, and upon you as well."  
"You mean to say that we betrayed Endymion to join forces with you?" I ask.  
"No, _he_ betrayed _you_. So you pledged yourselves to me, and to our Great Ruler."  
"He… betrayed us," I repeat, and cannot look away. I am mesmerized by her glow, her every gesture.  
"Yes, he did. Light betrayed you, so you found refuge in Darkness."  
"_The true beauty is within the shining darkness,_" I declare, as though I am reciting an old mantra.  
"Yes, Kunzite. Will you pledge yourselves to me again? Give me your bodies, for you have already given me your souls."  
"Our souls?"  
"You do not remember it, do you? That day when you kissed my hand, and promised to serve Darkness for all eternity."

The image flashes in my mind, the buried memory I could not understand.  
_We sold ourselves to Darkness._  
"Will you give me these new bodies?" she continues. "Renew the promise you once made. Take your powers back, and serve a better Master. For serving Endymion has brought you only pain and misery."

Another memory surfaces.  
I see a golden-haired goddess, wielding a sword. My heart is assailed with grief.

"So these stones, they mean that we belong to Endymion?" Raffaele says, his voice quivering with anger.  
"I will not belong to a traitor!" Menewa shouts.  
"Neither will I!" Shen declares.  
"Become more than what you were meant to be," Beryl urges us. "Give me these new bodies, and I will rid you of your human weakness! Remember those nightmares you had in the hall?"

_The beast devours my liver, searches for my heart.  
And I am bound in chains._

"…they represented your human fears. Become one with the Shadows, and make fear your ally!"  
I cannot possibly oppose her. She has subdued me completely, I know that I am hers. I cannot remember anything, but I am certain that I have lived this moment before.

She stands at the foot of the stairs, and I draw near. I kneel before her, bow my head. Then I take her hand, bring it to my lips, and lay a kiss upon it.  
While my fellow Heavenly Kings fall to their knees, and our stone pendants shatter.

"Now," Beryl says, raising her staff, "I will destroy you, so as to rebuild you again."  
She recites an incantation, speak the words in an ancient tongue. The spell is linear and without melody, it is full of hatred and contempt. She casts it with haste, and we immediately feel its full effect.

My flesh is seething. I gasp in pain as I fold over, and catch my reflection on the floor. I can see my face, melting. The skin dripping, sliding right off my cheekbones, my eyes sinking to my mouth.  
Our screams resonate through the room, but nothing can liberate us from this atrocity. I watch myself fall to pieces, Menewa implores the stars for mercy. Raffaele wails pathetically, and Shen drowns in his own debris.

We lie at Beryl's feet, and she turns away from us, waiting for the transformation to be complete.

_It is too late for regrets._

III.

As I open my eyes, I find myself in an open casket.

_But I am not dead._  
I sit up, and notice that I am wearing a grey uniform. Staring blankly, I touch my face. I am filled with indifference, devoid of pain. I leave the glass bed, and a cape unfolds and drapes behind me.

Three men are there with me. I recognize them. Nephrite, Jadeite and Zoisite. I don't remember meeting them before, but I know exactly who they are.

Nephrite sits on his closed casket, legs crossed.  
"It's about time you woke up, Kunzite," he smirks, forming a tiny star between his thumb and his index finger.  
"Our Master awaits," Jadeite informs me.  
Zoisite is leaning against a wall.  
"She has instructions for us."  
I nod, and contemplate my men.

We are the Heavenly Kings. Beryl's Four Commanders, and eternal servants of the Dark Kingdom. We have sworn an oath to Darkness, and must submit to its designs. What lies beyond that is immaterial. It is only shadow, and peering at it is like peering into a void.

"Then we will obey," I declare, and lead us to our fate.


End file.
